Unmasked
by jeanie2914
Summary: When an undercover operation goes awry, Peter gets a glimpse of the Neal behind the mask.
1. Chapter 1

_My first fanfic attempt. Writing it was quite an enjoyable distraction, and I hope reading it will also be. Includes spoilers through season four. Of course, I own nothing but the mistakes, for which I accept all responsibility_

**We Wear the Mask **_(Excerpt)_

We wear the mask that grins and lies,

It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—

This debt we pay to human guile;

With torn and bleeding hearts we smile

And mouth with myriad subtleties.

_~Paul Laurence Dunbar_

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Agent Burke," Neal's voice greeted Peter when he arrived on the rooftop of the warehouse. Having made his own entrance moments before via a more dangerous route, Neal stood near the building's edge. Peter was sure there was fresh blood on Neal's shirt. The reckless trip along the catwalks of the warehouse below had not been kind to his friend. He still didn't know the extent of the injuries Neal had sustained while undercover, but the low light reflected the sheen of sweat on his face. He was trembling, and there was a visible bruise on his cheek; his eye black. Arms wrapped protectively around his ribs; he was breathing heavily. "Stay away from me."

Peter had been approaching his friend but stopped at Neal's tone. Those words from a man standing near a ledge were distressing, the unspoken threat implied. The earlier playful tone had changed to a more desperate one. The drugs in his system were starting to break down. They had played havoc with Neal's memory, the man thinking he was still running from the FBI and especially Agent Peter Burke. That was when Peter had realized how out of it Neal really was. He had been beaten up, was bloody and disheveled, but when he called him Agent Burke instead of Peter in the warehouse, he knew.

Diana had explained through his ear bud the exact makeup of the drugs that had been injected into Neal, and what he could expect. Neal's memory had been compromised, possibly regressed. He would move from a euphoric state to paranoid, and into depression before finally succumbing to unconsciousness. The euphoric state was what Peter had experienced when he found Neal in the warehouse. He had made his way to the catwalks of the warehouse, jumping precariously from place to place, while bantering with Peter about his quest to send him to prison. He seemed particularly concerned about an alleged art forgery. His cover on the op had been that of an art forger, and Peter was sure that stuck in his head, possibly prompting his flight when the FBI stormed the warehouse. Peter tried to get through to him, reminding him that they were now partners, that he had been drugged, and that he wasn't there to arrest him. But none of it had registered with Neal as he worked his way up to the opening that lead to the roof. With a smile and wave, Neal disappeared through the small opening and was gone. "Dammit, Neal." Peter breathed as he started up the metal stairs to the door that lead to the east side of the roof. He motioned for Jones to enter from the other side. Between the two of them, maybe they could corner their delusional friend.

Neal stood at the edge of the warehouse; the playful attitude transformed into a fearful one. Peter knew that time was on his side if he could just keep Neal contained, keep him still and talking. Peter had seen a shadow of fear in Neal's eyes before, usually only as part of a cover, a con to sell some play he was trying in order to close a deal. But this was the real deal, a sincerity of expression in the blue eyes that Peter had only seen on the very briefest of occasions. Only a flicker before Neal shut down his expression, hiding behind a blank look or bright smile, depending upon which he felt would work the best at the moment. That skill made him the best con man the world had ever seen, and it also made him the best undercover CI the FBI had ever worked with. With Neal on his team, Peter cleared a 93% conviction rate. Some liked that; others didn't. But one could not argue with the results. The man was a master of deception, his eyes and demeanor rarely showing what was going on in the man's mind.

This skill had been weakened by the drugs Monroe had given him, likely for that very reason. Monroe had needed information from Neal and after the beating, drugs were the next line of attack. It left Neal unmasked and unguarded. It was an unusual experience to see this version of Neal, the real Neal. But Peter did not find it a pleasant one. The real Neal was scared. It was clear in his dark eyes. Peter felt it an unfair advantage to see Neal like this, to see the fear in his eyes. Neal didn't show fear or desperation. He felt them; Peter had no doubt because Neal sometimes had acted on them, usually with dire results. When Neal acted emotionally, it was reckless, with no thought to the consequences. Peter at times felt a twinge of guilt knowing that the only way he had ever caught Neal in the first place was by exploiting this flaw in Neal's almost perfect façade. Peter had used his emotions-something that Neal fought hard to keep hidden-against him. Peter had found his weakness for Kate, and he had used that weakness to send Neal to prison. Twice actually. Maybe that is why he felt guilt now, seeing his friend's fear when he knew Neal would never want to show that. He never wanted to appear weak or afraid. He didn't want to be vulnerable to Peter or anyone else.

Neal was trembling, looking at Peter in fear, the very definition of vulnerable. Peter held up his hands, palms out, trying to present a calm, non-threatening figure. He didn't want Neal to be afraid, and he didn't need for Neal to panic. A scared Neal was a reckless Neal. A scared Neal _ran_, and there wasn't anywhere to run on the roof. He tried again to reason with him.

"It's okay, Neal. Monroe and his men, they hurt you; they drugged you. You are not thinking clearly. I am here to help you."

"Help me to prison, maybe," Neal said almost under his breath. He looked at the drop behind him. It looked about three floors-thirty-six feet he would estimate-and there was nothing beneath to soften the blow, nothing to break his fall on this particular exit strategy. It seems strange to him that he didn't have an exit strategy. He always had a plan, a backup plan, and more than one exit strategy. But he looked around and saw nothing. Not thinking clearly? He frowned recalling the Agent's words, but a movement brought his eyes back up to the Agent's face.

Burke. He just wouldn't stop. It had been a game he had actually enjoyed for a long time, but Neal no longer felt like playing. Burke had taken a step closer. He looked genuinely concerned, and it seemed odd that he didn't have his gun drawn. Burke's goal in life was to send him to prison and had told him as much on many occasions. But he was just standing there, hands held out towards Neal. Something tugged at Neal's mind. Burke could help him; he had said he was there to help. Hurt, tired and confused, something about the look in Agent Burke's eyes made Neal want to believe him, to trust him. No exit strategy and a wish to run _to_ Agent Burke instead of away from him? _Not thinking clearly_ was an understatement. But the feeling persisted. He had a desperate need to trust this man. The thought hit Neal hard, his eyes flying open wide in fear. He didn't trust anyone, and he certainly could not trust a man who wanted to destroy his life. What was wrong with him? It wasn't safe. But for some strange reason, that knowledge caused a deep ache in his very being, a sense of loss and pain that was beyond the aches that plagued his body. He felt tears well up in his eyes, surprised, he blinked them away quickly. He swallowed.

Peter could see some sort of an internal battle going on in the drug impaired mind of the young man standing fifteen feet away from him, swaying near the edge of the roof. Neal had been looking at him absently, but suddenly a series of expressions crossed the young man's face so rapidly that they were hard to quantify. He looked like he might cry, but he swallowed hard instead.

"Everything changed." Neal blurted out.

Peter's tone was mildly surprised. "What do you mean?"

Peter had moved slightly to the side, and Neal adjusted to his new position. If he could get Neal to keep his eyes on him, and create an avenue for Jones to approach from the back, maybe Neal could be subdued without major incident.

"Everything was okay," Neal mumbled. "I thought everything was okay but it _wasn't.**"**_ He was clearly distressed.

Peter knew that Neal's mind wasn't working correctly. His memory was compromised. He had been in the past, before his arrest. Before his deal with the FBI. But maybe he had moved forward. Maybe he was talking about the op. Everything had been fine until his cover was blown. Then things had taken a turn for the worse. He'd been beaten and drugged.

"When did it change?" Peter pressed.

"Not sure." Neal's brow furrowed, the memory unclear, his voice confused. But things seemed okay, he thought. He felt happy and safe but then it was all gone. "It just did…Just a while ago. It's all gone." He paused, voice shaking when he spoke. "I can't do this again."

"Again?" Peter asked, not understanding where his partner's mind was. "Has this happen before?" Again Peter had moved, and Neal had adjusted. Peter could see Jones moving carefully and quietly along the edge of the building behind Neal.

The young man nodded. "It was okay. I thought everything was okay, but it _wasn't_" He repeated. "Ellen told me happy birthday and everything changed. My life….everything was…..was gone." His voice nearly broke on the last words. Ellen? Peter winced. That was years ago. Neal was back on his eighteenth birthday, when Ellen had told him the truth. His whole life had been a lie. He thought he was Danny Brooks, and his father was a hero who died in the line of duty. And suddenly he wasn't Danny. There was no Danny Brooks. And his father wasn't a hero; he was a criminal, a murderer. That day Danny Brooks ceased to exist, and the life of Neal Caffrey began. Scared and desperate, the innocent trust of his childhood shattered, he ran. Right into a life of a con man, into a life of crime. Into a life where he trusted-depended-on no one but himself. _Everything changed_. Peter had known that day had been hard for Neal. But it suddenly hit him exactly how hard it would be to have your life, and all your trust, ripped away with no warning. _My life….Everything was gone._ Heartbreaking Loss. That is what Neal had felt that day.

_I can't do this again;_ he had said. And it was what he was feeling now. Loss.

"That was a long time ago, Neal," Peter said. "You are okay now."


	2. Chapter 2

My first fanfic attempt. Thanks to Phoenix-cry for her assistance.

Of course, I own nothing but the mistakes, for which I accept all responsibility

**We Wear the Mask** _(Excerpt)_

…..Why should the world be over-wise,

In counting all our tears and sighs?

Nay, let them only see us, while

We wear the mask.

~ Paul Laurence Dunbar

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"That was a long time ago, Neal." Peter said. "You are okay now."

Trembling on the edge of a precarious drop, Neal looked anything but okay.

"Keep him talking, Boss" Diana urged in his ear. "Euphoria is definitely gone." She added sarcastically. She was tracking the course of the drugs in Neal's system by his behavior, matching them with psychological symptoms.

"It's all _gone_." Neal said again, shaking his head. Peter wondered if he had skipped paranoid and moved right into depression. "I don't want to do this anymore, Agent Burke."

"He can't go on like this much longer," Diana was saying. "He's gonna drop anytime now. You need to get him to step away from the edge."

Peter understood. Neal didn't need to be passing out in his current location. It would be a long way to the ground.

"Good, that makes two of us," Peter nodded toward the edge of the building. "You need to step away from there. It isn't safe."

"There is no safe."

"Yes there is, Neal." Peter stepped closer, keeping his eyes on Neal's pale face. "Come over here to me. It's safe here."

Neal shook his head. "It's only safe when I _run_."

"No it isn't, Neal".

"Stop calling me that." Every time Burke said his name, Neal's heart ached, and he felt his resolve slip. Everyone knew that calling someone by their given name created the illusion of a bond. It was a trick he had used himself. It made people think things that weren't true. To feel things that weren't safe to feel.

Peter's eyebrows raised. "It's your name," he said softly. He could see conflict in his friend's eyes.

"Its just a trick to make me…." Neal squeezed his eyes shut a moment, trying to force himself to focus. He opened them and looked at Peter. "I can't trust you." His words seemed torn from his throat, and Peter realized the battle Neal was fighting within himself.

"Yes you _can_." Peter said firmly. Neal _did_ trust him. Peter knew that. He had told him before, when like this, he was drugged and unable to hide his feelings. And somewhere in Neal's drugged mind he still trusted him. But that didn't track with Neal's memories. Did not fit with an FBI agent who wanted to send him to prison. No wonder the kid was confused.

"No I can't," Neal said desperately. "I can't trust _anyone_." He shook his head. "And its all gone. Again."

He was back to that. It had happened before-when he was eighteen, and somehow now it was happening again.

"What is gone, Neal?"

"My life….Everything is gone." His voice was just a whisper.

Like lightening in the night, words flashed through Peter's mind. Neal's words. He heard them clearly.

_There's something you should know. When we were at the hangar that day, before everything happened, I was gonna tell you something._

_What?_

_I didn't want to run anymore. If I'd gotten on that plane, regardless of whatever deal was made, it wouldn't have felt like freedom._

_Why? _

_Because it was an escape. You were right, Peter. I have a life here._

_What were you two arguing about? _

_Mozzie wanted to leave New York. I didn't._

_Why not? _

_You. Elizabeth. Sara. The view out that window. Stepping off the elevator Monday morning. All of it. I have a life here._

_I have a life here. I have a life here. _That phase echoed back to Peter.

_My life….Everything was gone. _

"I am tired of running." Neal words broke Peter from a rush of memories that had suddenly made things clear to him. Neal's rambling did made sense. Neal had a life here. It was a life he didn't want to leave and the drugs had taken the memory of that life away from him. When he had been injected with the drugs, he had forgotten. _Everything changed. _ That was the loss Neal was experiencing now, something he couldn't consciously remember but was feeling a devastating sense of loss for all the same. It had triggered his memories to the day when he found out his life was a lie. A day in which he had lost everything. And he had ran.

_Everything was gone_. It was a loss he could not go through again.

"You don't _have_ to run, " Peter insisted, stepping yet closer to his friend. "I am not _chasing_ you."

"You said you would never stop chasing me." Neal reminded him. He looked over the edge of the roof at his exit strategy. The ultimate exit strategy, he thought wryly. After a moment, he looked back at his adversary; a small smile on his face. "I think the only way you won't chase me is for me to run where you can't follow, Agent Burke."

There was a terrible sadness in Neal's voice. Peter felt a surge of shock, instinctually understanding his friend's intentions. He had been afraid Neal would go over the edge when he lost consciousness; He never considered that Neal would choose to go over on his own accord. There was no humor in his friend's eyes, but an odd smile played lightly on his lips. He is telling me good-bye, Peter thought, fear tightening his chest. He could see it in the blue eyes.

"Boss," Diana spoke in his ear, concerned. She had picked up on the tone of Neal's voice as well. "You better grab him before he does something stupid."

As Neal's movement, Peter cried out, "Its _not_ all gone, Neal!"

Peter could hear panic in his own voice. Neal faltered, a flicker of something in his eyes. Hope maybe? Encouraged, Peter continued. "You _have_ a life here."

Peter could see Jones, close enough to lunge forward if needed. "It isn't gone. You just can't remember it right now. You were _drugged_, Neal, but it _will_ come back. You have me, and El and Cappuccino in the clouds at June's…." Peter knew he was rambling and that Neal didn't remember any of this, but he kept talking all the same, desperate to convince his friend of the truth. "You work _with_ me now; we are friends. You have a home and people in your life who care about you." Doubt had replaced the momentary look of hope that had been in Neal's eyes. In spite of his honesty, of his outpouring of emotion, Neal still didn't believe him. "I am telling you the _truth__**," **_Peter's voice was intense._** "**_You _can_ trust me, Neal!"

Something in Peter's voice finally reached his friend. Neal's eyes were suddenly full of tears, and he didn't blink them back. They fell down his face in abandonment and Peter heard a sob escape his lips. He stepped toward Peter hesitantly, his look still unsure, and Peter immediately closed the distance. He put an arm around Neal's shoulder, squeezing him reassuringly but mindful of his injuries. He could feel Neal trembling against him, nearly out on his feet and he lowered him to the ground.

"It's okay, Neal, you're safe," he said, catching confusion in the unfocused eyes. He could feel Neal's hands clinging to him desperately. "You are going to be alright." Jones radioed the clear for the medics to enter the rooftop, running to meet them and show them the way. Peter stayed with Neal.

"Agent Burke..." Neal whispered. Tears still streamed from his eyes.

"Peter," Peter corrected, smoothing dark curls from the pale forehead. "Its _Peter_ to you, Neal." The look in the blue eyes changed from confusion to relieved gratitude in such a great degree that Peter felt his breath catch in his throat. He felt a lump there, too. His turn to blink and swallow tears, and he was only marginally successful.

"Peter," Neal whispered, eyes pleading. "I _hurt_."

"I know, Buddy." Peter said, looking at his friends battered body, his voice husky. "Help is coming. They will fix you up."

"And I am scared." His voice was still a whisper. Two confessions that Neal Caffrey would never make. Peter could hear the medics arriving and the rolling of the gurney.

"I know." Peter said again, in his most reassuring voice. "But that's okay. It's okay to be scared, Neal. Everyone gets scared." He paused, searching the frightened eyes. "You can be scared and still not _run_."

"Really?" Neal asked as if he wasn't convinced, but wanted to be. He sounded like a child. He looked a bit like one, too.

"Really." Peter smiled in spite of himself.

"Good," Neal's voice was barely audible. "I am tired of running." Neal's eyes were drooping more with each passing minute. He seemed to relax and Peter thought that he had finally succumbed to unconsciousness. But a moment later, his eyes flew open again. He grabbed the fabric of Peter's shirt, clutching desperately, his other hand held tightly to Peter's arm.

"You promise...you _promise_ I have a life?" His blue eyes bore into Peter's brown ones, demanding truth. "Promise it isn't _gone_?"

"I promise, Neal." Peter said, taking one of Neal's hand and squeezing it in his own. "I _promise_."

Peter's reassurance brought a look of contentment into the young man's face. He closed his eyes as the Medics knelt beside him, an oxygen mask placed over the small smile that clung to his lips. Peter breathed in relief. Neal the unmasked, masked again.


	3. Chapter 3

My first fanfic attempt. Does this format work? I am obviously technologically challenged because nothing works the same way twice. Que será, será

Thanks for reading and the reviews.

Of course, I own nothing but the mistakes, for which I accept all responsibility

**We Wear The Mask** _(Excerpt)_

….We smile, but oh great Christ, our cries

To thee from tortured souls arise.

We sing, but oh the clay is vile

Beneath our feet, and long the mile…

~Paul Laurence Dunbar

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Well," Neal was saying as Peter approached his hospital room "Waking up in a room with a forged painting to the sound of _**'FBI, Freeze!'**_ is bound to rattle a person, even the unflappable Neal Caffrey." Peter had to smile and, of course, June had to agree. She laughed, patting Neal's arm. "I am just glad you are none the worse for wear, all in all." She had brought him a change of clothes so he would have something to wear when he was released later that afternoon. Peter entered the room, spoke to June as she left and took his afternoon assessment of his CI and friend.

He looked better than he had this morning when Peter had taken his statement. Neal hadn't been awake long when Peter had came and had little recollection of the closing events of the undercover operation. Things were pretty clear up until the drugs had been injected, but spotty at best afterwards. His statement reflected that but the holes in his memory had clearly bothered him. Some things, such as waking up with the forgery in his possession, seemed to have made an impression on his elusive memory. Not knowing what was going on, and after years of being pursued for his _**alleged** _crimes, Neal's instinct to escape had taken over. He remembered that quick decision. He also remember the panic he had felt at seeing Peter, who he thought was there to arrest him. Other than those two things, he had no memory of the events that followed. He had not spoken about the time on the rooftop, and neither had Peter.

He had been in the hospital for two days. Peter had been there when he was settled in, but he had been unconscious. He had slept the first night and the entire first day. He had been exhausted not only from the stress of being undercover, but from the beating and the drugs as well. The doctor had reported cracked ribs, several abrasions and contusions, and a bruised kidney. Peter sat with him the first night, and a few hours the next day. He watched the young man sleep and thought about all that had happened on the roof of the warehouse. He knew a lot about Neal. He took pride in the fact that he had learned so much about the man while chasing him, and he had learned even more while working with him. He had always expected Neal to run the minute he had the chance. That was what Neal did. But he knew opportunities had arisen, with Mozzie probably lots of them, and when given a choice, Neal hadn't taken them. Peter hadn't given this lack of flight much thought, rationalizing it by assuming it must not have been the right time, the right situation, for which Neal was waiting to make his departure. But things had changed since the rooftop conversation. Peter knew now that on some basic level, Neal didn't want to run. He was **_tired_** of running; he had said so.

That didn't mean that he **_wouldn't_** run. A scared Neal was a reckless Neal. A scared Neal **_ran_**. And even though he rarely showed it, sometimes Neal was scared. Not of going undercover, not even of dangerous criminals most of the time. In fact, Neal often ran _**towards** _danger, much to Peter's horror. But he ran away from emotional distress. At eighteen, when the life he knew shattered, Neal ran away. He had left that life behind and invented another, several in fact, sporting dozens of aliases. But the life he had now- the life of Neal Caffrey, FBI Consultant-was different from all of those. This life mattered to him.

And Neal did not want that life disrupted; taken away. Faced with the fear that that had happened, he had contemplated a dive off a three story building. Peter still felt a tightening in his chest when he remembered the strange smile on Neal's face; the look of sad good bye in his eyes. Neal had a life and he didn't want to lose it. That was why no opportunity Mozzie had presented him and been right. Neal didn't want to leave this life behind. He took Peter's barbs about being sent back to prison, but Peter knew now that those threats were cruel. Neal usually responded with a smart remark or the Caffrey smile, as they called it. But the threats had to have stung the young man. That smile erupted now, as Peter entered the room; a smile that could hide almost anything and often did.

Peter sat in the chair he had occupied that morning and asked Neal what his prognosis was. The doctor had been delayed this morning, and Peter had left before his arrival. Neal seemed hesitant to share, but did so. Soreness, headaches-he had paused a second before finishing-feelings of emotional insecurity.

Emotional insecurity. That didn't sound good; Peter thought to himself.

Pain medicine helped with the headache; Neal assured him, and the other should only persist a couple of days. Bouts of Emotionalism, the doctor had called it, a lingering repercussion of the drugs that he had been injected with.

"Emotionalism?" Peter asked, eyebrows raising at the terminology.

"That's what the doctor said," Neal answered lightly.

"How are you doing with **_that_**, then? Peter asked. Physically Neal had been through a lot the last few days. But he had been through a lot emotionally, too, whether he remembered it or not. Hell, even Peter had felt put through the ringer, and he had only been a witness. For the most part, he told himself.

"I asked to be sedated until it wore off, but they refused." Neal sounded as if he were joking, but the way he ran his hand through his hair told Peter that maybe he hadn't been. Dealing with Neal required a delicate balance. He wanted Neal to know he cared about what he had been through, not only at the warehouse but in his life, in general. But the reason he had that information was because he had witnessed Neal's vulnerability, his weakness, his fears. The man had wept in his arms less than 48 hours before. It felt unfair to betray that secret, even to Neal himself. Peter didn't know how to reconcile the issue, so he said nothing.

They found easy conversation; they talked about the case. Neal seemed good, if a little restless. Other than the bruises that still darkened parts of his face, he looked none the worse for wear. He was dressed and waiting to be given his walking papers, so the bruises to his body were hidden. His movements were a little slow, his posture not its usual pristine form, but bruised ribs would do that to a person. He had to feel the effects of his physical ordeal, but his smile seemed easy; his conversation relaxed. But Peter knew something was amiss when he suddenly excused himself and entered the restroom. When he returned, his face was wet, as were the tendrils of hair around it. At Peter's questioning look, Neal smiled, looking almost embarrassed.

"Just shaky, you know." He ran his hand through his hair again. That was twice. "I guess it is all part of **_bout of emotionalism_**." He rolled his eyes when he said the words, attempting to make light of his lapse.

"Anything particular that makes you…." Peter paused, looking at his friend. The facade was not quite up to par, and he was pretty sure the correct word was afraid, but he used Neal's word instead "shaky?"

"Other than being injected with random pharmaceuticals?" Neal asked easily. "No, nothing that merits discussion." He didn't meet Peter's eyes, and there was a slight tremble in his hands as he busied himself straightening the bed.

"You know they have staff for that," Peter commented sarcastically. Neal shot him an irritated look. Leaving the bed making alone, and seemingly at a loss as to what to do, he sat down gingerly on its edge. His brow was furrowed. He was struggling; Peter could tell, and not just with sore ribs. Emotional insecurity?

"What is it, Neal? It might help to talk about it." It sounded lame even to Peter's ears, and when Neal didn't answer, he continued, "Don't you trust me?"

"Of course Peter," Neal voice was full of exasperation, eyes rolling again, "I trust you with my life, and do so rather frequently."

Peter nodded. "With your life, maybe. But not with your feelings." It was a statement; not a question. Neal didn't trust anyone with his feeling and Peter understood why. Peter wasn't like El-He wasn't good at getting people to share their feelings or even handling them once they did. Sometimes he was harsh and didn't mean to be. Sometimes he didn't know enough about how he felt himself to support someone else. Sometimes, he just didn't know what to do. Like now.

Neal's eyes flickered before he spoke. "That is a different kind of thing."

Peter nodded but said nothing. After a moment, Neal continued. "I don't mind this," Neal gestured toward what Peter knew were his bruised ribs. "I mean, I don't like it, obviously, and I hate getting the crap beat out of me, but these things heal. You can take a pill and use an ice pack for the pain. They hurt, but they get better."

"Other things aren't that simple," Peter admitted.

"Some things hurt and **_don't_** get better," Neal stated flatly. He stood up, wincing at the pain the sudden move caused him. "I don't like people getting into my head. The drug thing….." he sounded frustrated, angry "That kind of thing can't happen to me."

"It shouldn't happen to anyone," Peter said quietly. "It's was a violation. Not just a physical one, but..." He stopped. He wanted to say "an emotional one as well." But his own guilt at having seen Neal with his guard down prevented him from saying the words.

"The things I have been thinking about," Neal continued, beginning to pace the small room. He shot a look at Peter, "I don't **_think_** about things like that." The hand through his hair. The third time since the start of the conversation. Classic tell for _"I am freaking out"_ in the Caffrey handbook.

"What's freaking you out, Neal?" It came out of his mouth, more brusquely than he had meant, before he could stop it. Not his best approach admittedly. He felt he had been pretty darn good at the warehouse, talking Neal down, holding him while he cried, telling him it was alright to be scared. El would have been proud. He had been perceptive, brilliant, sensitive with a capital S, and El hadn't been there to see it. Neal had been but didn't even remember it. He had no witnesses, but he had done good. So why was this so hard now, he wondered?

It was because Neal was closed off again, Peter realized. At the warehouse, he had been open, unguarded, almost childlike in some ways. Neal had **_needed_** him. It had pained Peter to see him like that, but in seeing it, he had been able to respond with a degree of openness himself. Openness wasn't always easy for him to achieve, but he had managed it. He needed to be needed, he guessed.

"Neal?" Peter asked again, not letting the question go.

Neal stopped his restless pacing and sighed. "I don't know." He sounded tired and sank back to the edge of the bed.

_Shaky. Emotionally Insecure. Emotionalism._

"I don't know," he said again. He glanced at Peter almost apologetically. "Things aren't exactly clear in my head these days."

Understandable, Peter thought.


	4. Chapter 4

This concludes my first fanfic attempt. Thanks for reading and the reviews. Its been loads of fun. Might just do it again...

Of course, I own nothing but the mistakes, for which I accept all responsibility.

We Wear the Mask _(Complete)_

We wear the mask that grins and lies,

It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—

This debt we pay to human guile;

With torn and bleeding hearts we smile

And mouth with myriad subtleties,

Why should the world be over-wise,

In counting all our tears and sighs?

Nay, let them only see us, while

We wear the mask.

We smile, but oh great Christ, our cries

To thee from tortured souls arise.

We sing, but oh the clay is vile

Beneath our feet, and long the mile,

But let the world dream otherwise,

We wear the mask!

~Paul Laurence Dunbar

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWWCWCWCWWWCWC**

"Things aren't exactly clear in my head these days."

Understandable, Peter thought.

Aloud he said, "You have to have some idea."

"Not really," Neal shook his head, but then continued. "You know how when you get beat up, you feel sore?" He was looking at Peter, who nodded.

"You know it hurts when you move, even hurts when you breathe…."

Looking uncertain, Neal paused. Peter could see the tremble in his hands. Peter nodded again, encouraging his friend to continue.

"Well, it's kind of like that but…." He paused, then rushed on. "Its in my head. Everything I think about, everything just hurts."

"Hurts where? Your head?"

"No….I don't know….in my heart. My heart hurts. " He stood up, wincing both from physical and mental pain. "That sounds even worse out loud than when I was just thinking it."

Recalling the emotional beating Neal recently had taken, this description of pain didn't surprise Peter. But Neal didn't remember, so his confusion was understandable. "This is what the doctor warned you about." Peter reminded him. "Emotional insecurity."

"Yeah, I know, _bouts of emotionalism_." Neal sounded frustrated. "And I understand why some stuff…" his voice strained "hurts. Things from before….things I don't think about."

"Because some things hurt and don't get better," Peter repeated the words Neal has spoken moments before. "They are bouncing around in your head right now, aren't they?"

"Yeah, but that happens sometimes, Peter, even without being drugged." Neal walked to the window and looked out. He seemed absorbed, and the view didn't merit his attention. "I just don't over think it. I move into now, to the present, and stay away from the past."

"Sounds reasonable," Peter said. He wasn't sure how healthy that was in the long run, but understood Neal's need to distance himself from the more painful aspects of his life. After the conversation on the warehouse rooftop, he could guess what one of those past experiences was.

"But even thinking about now…" Neal continued. "for some reason, that's bad, too."

"Bad how?"

"When I think about my life now, working with you living at June's…" Neal sounded confused. "It makes me feel like I'm gonna…shake apart, on the inside." His voice had dropped so low Peter could barely hear it.

"Why, Neal?"

"I am not sure," Neal looked at Peter but only briefly before turning back to the window. "I guess I ….I ..like my life and that makes me feel …." He paused, "shaky."

"Liking your life is a good thing, Neal. It shouldn't scare you." Peter grimaced at his use of the word scare. Neal didn't like that word, but he had used it at the warehouse. Peter felt as if he were betraying a trust between himself and the vulnerable Neal, who had opened up to him about feelings. Sure, he had been under the influence of drugs, but he had opened up.

"But it does," Neal admitted. "Scare me." Peter grimaced at the word.

"Why?" Peter asked. In the warehouse Neal had been afraid of losing the life he had; now he was afraid because he had it.

"Because sometimes…everything changes," Neal said quietly.

Peter felt his breath catch but didn't say anything. That phrase was too unique to have been used by accident. Either it was something that played often in the back of Neal's mind or part of the conversation at the warehouse was coming back to him. Everything changed. He had said, and with that change came great loss.

"Yes, it can." Peter kept his voice quiet, watching his friend's back.

Neal stood very stiffly, gazing out the window. Over the past few moments, Peter had watched Neal's body language transform before his eyes. He seemed to have reclaimed his impeccable posture; hands now stuffed into his pockets, the trembling out of sight. His stance showed confidence, ease and comfort; Peter knew this was just an act. The man was the master of deception. The more out of control he was feeling, the more in control of his body Neal had became. The real Neal was hiding, protecting himself. He turned to look at Peter.

"If you don't have a life, you know, one that really means anything, it doesn't matter when everything changes. When its over you just move on." Even Neal's voice was calm, the eyes that met Peter's were devoid of feeling. Detached, his mask was firmly in place.

Peter just nodded, realizing that this was the life Neal chose when he ran away from St. Louis at eighteen. Having his life shattered so completely, he had not allowed himself to become attached to one again. Until now. Peter continued to search Neal's eyes for a crack in the facade, a sign that what he believed to be the source of Neal's fear was true. It came; there was a falter in the expression. Immediately Neal averted his eyes and turned again to survey the view. His posture remained controlled, hands in pockets. He was silent. Peter could feel Neal's tension increasing as the moments passed.

"Neal." Peter just said the name softly and nothing else. He didn't know why but he felt Neal needed to hear it. Somehow that connected them in Neal's mind. Even drugged with no memory of their friendship, Peter saying his name had caused an emotional response in Neal. Insider knowledge, Peter knew, but for some reason he didn't feel guilty about using it. He said his friend's name again, almost pleadingly "Neal."

When Peter spoke the second time he saw almost a shudder in Neal's rigid frame, and when the young man turned, he saw the Neal from the rooftop. His facade had crumbled. There was anguish in the blue eyes, and his voice was no longer calm. "But if you have a life and…and one minute everything is okay and then…then it just isn't." Neal paused. "It just…blindsided me."

At eighteen, a boy named Danny had received information that had shaken his world, shattered his faith in the people he trusted and made him feel powerless. He had responded to that by becoming Neal Caffrey, a man who would go to great lengths to control his circumstances, a man who did not trust. He detached from his emotions, influenced his surroundings, and manipulated people he came into contact with. He had become an excellent con artist, and now a valuable asset to the FBI, because of the skills he had developed out of self preservation.

During an operation, Neal was impressive to watch. He was continually assessing the situation, reading the people involved and anticipating all possible developments. He adapted well and made lightening fast adjustments. He was rarely taken by surprise. It was all about control. If you knew what was coming, you could be prepared. You could have a plan. You would never be caught off guard. Never blind-sided.

_Everything changed. My life…..everything was gone._

Neal had been caught off guard. Blind-sided. Peter understood.

"That is why you are scared," he said, stepping towards Neal, his theory confirmed. "Your life matters to you and a lot of other people. You don't want to lose that."

"When things matter….," Neal's face contorted with pain before he rushed on "people get hurt. I. Get. Hurt." His hands, free from his pockets, were shaking as he held them in front of himself almost protectively. "I can't do that again." He moved nervously about the small room. " I can't stay here." Neal's voice was desperate; all pretense of composure gone. "I can't stay, but I don't…I don't wanna go."

A scared Neal ran; but he was tired of running. He had rather die than leave this life behind, but he was afraid to stay. Such conflict caused great emotional distress in the young man. His respiration was rapid; all color had left his face and his eyes were wild as he paced like a caged animal. A desperate one.

Peter reached out, putting his hand on Neal's arm, stopping him from his movement. Peter felt him relax slightly at the touch. He remembered how Neal had clung to him on the rooftop, as he pleaded for reassurance that he had a life, that everything was not gone. The physical contact had comforted him. He turned Neal to face him, putting one of each of his hands on Neal's shoulders respectively. He stood there until the blue eyes met his. The expression in them a strange mix between fear and hope. Neal trusted him; Neal needed him. It was an big responsibility and Peter did his best to not shudder his own emotions. He cared and Neal needed to know that.

"It's okay to be scared, Neal. Everyone gets scared." He paused, the moment almost surreal. "You can be scared and still not _run_."

On the rooftop, it had been a sob, but here it was just a catch of breath. The expressions that ran through Neal's eyes, again, were hard to follow, and Peter didn't try. He pulled Neal clumsily to him and hugged him. Neal didn't hug back, hands hanging uselessly by his sides, but Peter felt the tenseness begin to leave his body; the pounding heartbeat begin to slow. He felt Neal's head rest on his shoulder; felt him grow heavy in his arms, as if he were too tired to hold himself upright. There was a soft sigh of relief, and then Peter felt Neal's light embrace. Tears stung Peter's eyes, and he blinked rapidly to dispel them. After a several moments, he felt Neal's weight shift as he dropped his arms and pulled away slightly. Peter dropped his arms, too, and stepped back. There was a wetness on Neal's cheeks too. His face pale and splotchy, hair mussed; he looked like a kid. Neal smiled sheepishly and glanced away.

"This whole emotional insecurity thing really doesn't work for me."

"Yeah, me neither," Peter admitted, his voice sounding husky.

"Next time, I am insisting on being sedated."

"I might join you," Peter joked, then became more serious. "This is El's thing, not mine."

"Well," Neal shrugged his shoulder "You did okay."

"Thanks," Peter said, trying to meet Neal's eyes again. "You know, we really aren't that different, Neal."

Neal's looked was amused. "How so?"

"Emotional stuff…it freaks us both out." Peter ran his hand through his brown hair to prove his point, if only to himself. "and when it happens, well, you flash the Caffrey smile and I say "Cowboy up."

Neal responded to that by flashing said smile. "You know what they say, Peter, 'Birds of a feather.'"

The smile on his friend's face made Peter feel better. It had been a hard three days, but he had gotten a rare glimpse of the Neal behind the mask. And he was better for it; They both were.

"That's a lame one, Neal," Pete admonished playfully. "Mozzie would be ashamed."

"Well, it's the best I could do," Neal defended. "I am in the hospital, recovering from being beaten and drugged by criminals, suffering from emotional insecurity."

"Cowboy up, Caffrey," Peter ruffled Neal's hair, smiling at his friend's expression. Neal needed him; Neal trusted him. It was a great responsibility and he didn't take it lightly. "There is no excuse for mediocrity."


End file.
